Imaginary Friend
by MONANIK
Summary: As any story goes, this one, too, starts with a tragedy. Lance is a freshly-out-of-college adult ready to take on his dreams of becoming a pilot. But before his debut in the skies, he decides to spend some time at home with his family in Ann Arbor, where objects vanish and a childhood memories resurface, reminding the cuban to-be pilot of a long forgotten imaginary friend: Keith
1. Once upon a time

_As any story goes, this one, too, starts with a tragedy._

 _Though it seems cruel, and at times unjustified, human anger, greed and sorrow usually go hand in hand. Like any other species, it lives to exist. But what happens when you exist… to live? Are you doomed to be forever shunned by your peers, your pack?_

 _That was the dilemma our lad faced._

 _As any story goes, this one too starts with a conflict based in greed. Humans cannot satisfy with anything less than all there is, so they constantly strive for what's unattainable— regardless of the outcome. As any story goes, this one too has its layers upon layers of anger and sorrow. Sometimes their anger, their frustration, their losses, shine so bright that they burn those around. Humans light a flame in their agony and spread it in the world, dooming the rest to misery on equal grounds as them._

 _Alas, they continue to thrive and live like cockroaches; crawl their way through anything, live on nothing, but refuse to go._

 _And so, as any story goes, this one, too, is doomed to burn._


	2. Fuzzy Socks

Heavier than a thousand iron boots— that was the case of his eyelids.

The alarm by his head vibrated roughly with every deafening shrill, continuing its job of zapping the poor boy awake. Groggily, and with only one eye open, he leaned up on his elbows and swatted the alarm on his bedside table— or the _excuse_ he owned for a beside table, that is.

When the chilling noise of the alarm died off, his head fell as if filled with bricks back on the silken-soft pillow. It smelled faintly of drool, sweat and shampoo. If he focused on it, he could smell the remains of his nightly skin routine— remorselessly smeared against the silken fabric.

As heavy as his eyelids were, they were nothing compared to the weight of his legs, sore and frail and abused beyond repair. Nothing a hot shower couldn't fix, of course. So, with static in his brain and only one eye awake, he dragged himself out of bed and to his and Hunk's shared bathroom. Distantly he could hear the faint sound of a sizzling pan and an overly excited weathercast guy on the antique radio in the kitchen.

He stopped in the hallway and let himself breath, in and out, as he listened to the sound of creaky, chilled windows. The rain tapped against the glass delicately, as if preparing him for the coming winter.

"What's for breakfast?"

He took a deep breath, feeling rejuvenated and clean, and plopped down on one of the creaky chairs in their far too small kitchen. He'd dressed himself in a dark blue sweater and a pair of washed-out jeans— his socks clad in a mismatched pair of fluffy socks, armored for the cold fall air outside.

Around him were boxes of all shapes and sizes, ready to be taken back to where they came from: home.

"A classic: bacon and eggs. Never fails to excite, or fill!" his buddy supplied, as bright as ever regardless of the hour, "I hope you like banana pancakes, because I made those, too." He added and shot his friend a wink.

Lance was out of himself, "Woah. Thanks, man!" he simply replied and dove for the food displayed in front of him, hot and saucy and incredibly delicious— as with all of Hunk's cooking, "Jeez… what am I gonna do without you now that we're going back?" he asked, a sigh escaping.

His friend chuckled warmly, "Did you forget how amazing your mom's cooking is?" he asked, squirting layers upon layers of syrup on his pancakes as he did.

A sudden pang of longing vibrated through him at the mention of his mother. Soon he was to meet her again after being gone for years, studying for his bachelor's in aviation. He had visited, of course, but his visits were few and far in between. School left him little wiggle room, that is.

Now, after years of tests and assignments, he was finally ready to return as a man with a degree— more than worthy of some home-cooked praise, if you ask him.

"Besides," the big guy continued, "We still live in the same neighborhood." He finished and shoveled pancake and syrup into his mouth. His cheeks filled and puffed up as he chewed. The dark chocolate of his eyes, and the faint flush on his dark cheeks, told Lance everything he needed to know, so he smiled at the sight and dug into his own meal— relishing in the flavors and aromas all around.

A moth flew into their kitchen lamp above, over and over, as if stuck on a loop.


	3. Dagger

He was greeted with streets painted in reds and browns, coated in what made fall the most beautiful time of year. Okay, second most beautiful. It would be a lie to say Lance didn't have a special place for summer with its warm sun and ocean trips.

Though the crunchy leaves all around cast a spell over him, captivating him. A cold wind blew through the branches above, chilling his already red nose and cheeks. His hands felt stiff and numb from the cold, cramped around his boxes as if it were a lifeline amidst a raging ocean.

" **How much more?** " his mother asked, her hair a disheveled mess of locks, ruffled by the breeze and the excitement of finally reuniting with her son. There was something unique about his mother's beauty. It radiated a calm he's never seen in anything, not even in the deepest nooks of the forest.

" **Just these boxes and my bag and we're done.** " He answered, smile not wavering.

"Okay. Come in when you're done, **food is ready.** " She said and took his bag inside, leaving the door open behind her.

Their house was nothing special, a typical brick house with a wooden porch. It was old— incredibly old— and huge compared to most houses on their block. Built sometime in the 18-hundreds, it holds stories of old, most untold. He vaguely remembers his gran telling him something about it being an old orphanage, long forgotten and rebuilt to fit a big Cuban family. Anytime he tried to ask more he never got an answer.

He threw his box and jacket on the seat by the front door and stepped inside, taking his shoes off in the process and nearly tripping on his own feet trying to enter their kitchen. The entire house smelled of delicious Cuban specialties.

The kitchen swarmed with children and adults of all ages. Everyone decided to come over for dinner upon hearing the news of his arrival. There was his gran: slouched on the chair closest to the window, her favorite. There was his grandfather: as animated and rough as ever, patting his mother on the back so aggressively it sent her into a coughing fit. There was his father, too: sitting stiffly by his gran with little Leo in his lap, Lance's cousin. His mother stood by Lance's, helping prepare the food. There were his brothers: Marco and Luis, chatting excitedly and asking questions upon questions about his studies and future. They wanted to know everything there is to know about Delaware. And lastly, there were his sisters: Veronica and Rachel. They were sat next to Marco and Luis, listening to their conversation and occasionally throwing in a comment or question of their own.

All in all, things were good. This was good. If there was one thing Lance adored above everything else it was his family, and now here they were, all of them, together— for him!

They ate their food in lively chatter and laughter, speaking with mouths full and devouring whatever was reachable in front of them. Darkness fell outside the window and so candles were lit, adding to the calm, the happiness he felt. It was all like a sappy Christmas movie, except it was nowhere near time for Christmas just yet. His tiredness from earlier vanished amidst the commotion, and the empty hole he'd felt in his heart for years was finally being filled, slow and steady but to the brim with love and delight.

As the evening came to an end, his cousin and his aunt left, together with his grandpa. Once everyone was settled down in the living room, and the excitement of his arrival had died down somewhat, Lance decided to carry some boxes and the Christmas gifts he'd bought in Delaware to the basement to store them for the approaching holiday.

Except, one of the roughly packed gifts were gone.

It was a delicate, silver bracelet he'd bought for his mother— left in its original box and wrapped in red and white Christmas paper.

" **Mom, have you maybe seen a red and white present anywhere?** " he asked upon entering the packed living-room after having searched the entire upper and lower floor.

" **Present? The little red box, you mean?** " she asked, " **Yeah, that one.** " He said.

His mother shook her head in thought, " **No, love, last time I saw it was when you brought it inside. Have you gone and lost it already?** " she asked him, irritation on the tip of her tongue, ready to surface fully.

"No, I haven't." he said, "I know where I left it, but now it's gone! Poof!" he tried explaining, flailing his arms around in mild panic. That gift had cost him a great deal. He was a student after all, barely had enough to pay his tuition, yet he'd managed to work for some cash and bought the silver bracelet for his mother, and now it was gone.

"You don't think auntie or someone accidentally took it while leaving?" his brother, Marco, asked.

"No, I checked with them already. Grandpa, too." He said, shoulders dropping in defeat. Maybe he'd finally gone mad, after all, or maybe he was just an idiot, as usual.

Then, his gran spoke up, " **Maybe it was the boy.** " She said, gaze distant.

" **The boy?** " he heard himself asking, "As in, Leo?" he wondered, confused.

" **No, silly, the boy in the house.** " She said it as if it were an explanation, something obvious.

" **Don't fill his head with stupid things, mom.** "

"Whatever. But I'm telling you, **things have been disappearing left and right ever since Lance went to Delaware.** " His gran shrugged and continued with her stitching, pale fingers working swiftly with the needles.

" **It's a big house, and you're getting old, mom. Things are lost all the time.** " His mother said, defiant as usual to most things his gran had to say. Lance, however, was intrigued. A ghost, he assumed. His interest was piqued.

"Wait, wait, **what boy?** " he asked, " **Well, since you've been gone, strange things have been happening round the house, to your mother too. I feel like I'm the one who experiences most of it, since I'm home all the time.** " His gran started, " **My things keep disappearing left and right, and as of recent, the others' things have been missing, too.** "

"So… our house is haunted…?" he asked, earning himself a frustrated sigh from his mother who was seemingly tired of his presence already.

" **Yes. By a young man.** " His gran finished.

"Wait, you've seen him—"

"We don't have time for this, **go down and check in the basement. Maybe you accidentally** **brought it down with the other packages and forgot.** " His mother interrupted, urging him out of the living room.

He sighed and dragged himself down the creaky stairs to his basement. The lightbulb flickered to life, lighting up the stuffed basement in a cold glow.

The walls were stained and ruined from years of mold, dust and dirt. Floorboards creaked and groaned below his feet in age-old protest, scratches and markings decorating its surface. Some of the nails had loosened and were scattered all around. The roof, as ruined as the walls, was mold-damaged and coated in thick webs.

The basement always gave him chills, partially because of the cool temperature compared to the rest of their overheated house, and partially due to the general atmosphere down there. It was cold and eerily quiet, the part of the house that screamed of its age the most.

He went through his boxes, which stood as a bright contrast against the dusty furniture, boxes, books and other artifacts all around. As his hands worked through them diligently, something out the corner of his eye caught his attention— the stove.

It was an old stove used for heating and possibly even cooking, his gran had informed him. The thing was surprisingly big, considering the time when it had been built and used. It always gave him cold chills— the kind that crawl up your spine and spread through your bloodstream.

Hours passed of him working through and around boxes, picking out what was needed and storing away what wasn't. The entire process might have ben faster if it weren't for his habit of lingering on every memory which hid in those boxes and amongst the many shelves and corners of their basement.

Just as he was about to finish storing away the last of his bulky boxes, a quick sparkle caught his attention. He turned his head and found to his utter confusion and shock that the bracelet he had been looking for was right there, in the far-right corner, out and naked on one of gran's antique chairs. Multiple questions surfaced at one. _"Why was it out of its packaging?"_ Being the main one.

So, he stood there, box in hand, and felt his blood run cold in his veins. His previous conversation with his gran resurfaced and clawed at the inside of his skull, begging to be allowed to resurface fully and occupy his mind for months on end. But this time he knew better. He would not let his gran mess with his psyche once again.

A deep breath, and a few long but hesitant strides later he was stood before the lost bracelet. As he reached to pick it up, his eyes landed on a wooden box shoved into the far corner. It was coated with dust and shielded with various objects and packages, completely out of view.

He grabbed the bracelet and shoved it in his back-pocket, hesitant to lean down and pull out the age-old box but doing so anyways. It was a dark brown, muddy color— wet to the touch, too. He gagged once but stilled when he saw the notes written on the front.

 _In memory of a brother._

He gulped, sensing the gnawing of his gran's words at the back of his head, but he shook it off once more and reached to open the old thing.

Inside were various objects: a teddy bear, notes, cards, drawings and rolled up paintings, a knife, a few books, notes, a map, a clock and a handful of photos— all black and white but yellow and faded. The corners were chipped and rough, bits and pieces missing.

He turned one of the photographs around and recoiled at what he saw: a boy. His age, maybe younger by the looks of it, but a boy nonetheless. Something about him reminded Lance of someone he's known before, but he couldn't pin-point who.

He was clad in simple clothes, an indication of his low social status; a white button up shirt and a pair of worn, dark pants. His hands were covered in gloves— dark, too— and on his head was a Gatsby hat, dark in color as well.

The boy's face was stern, a frown etched deep into his features, but something about him made him look incredibly handsome. Maybe it was the way his long, dark, locks framed his face and enhanced his cheekbones, or maybe it was the way his eyes gleamed with something akin to passion.

 _Or maybe Lance was just reading too much into it._

He looked at the other photos, all very similar. The boy looked the same in most of them, clad in the same clothes and holding the same stature. In some, he was accompanied by what looked like personnel, in others he was surrounded by children of all ages. Some photos were of him at a young age, as far as Lance could tell. Over all, it was clear in whose memory this was dedicated.

Lance swallowed back the clump that had risen to the top of his throat. All these pictures of the same, sad boy— so young and full of life— reminded him of how fleeting life is. He didn't look like he lived a happy life, for every picture was of him frowning, every picture but one.

In this picture, the boy was a child. It wasn't a photography, but a drawing in coal. It was incredibly well drawn, detailed and realistic, and it was of the boy smiling. He couldn't have been older than four when it had been drawn.

It _ached_ to see.

Something in him told him to put the box away and forget about it, never touch it again, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. His hands shook where they were holding onto the drawing. Lance felt himself taking a deep breath and then continued, curiosity getting the better of him. The worn teddy bear inside was incredibly dirty and ruined from years of usage and neglect. It made his skin crawl from the mere thought of the kinds of germs and insects which must be crawling through the fabric, nested between its folds and inside its stuffing.

He put it down and looked through some more drawings. It appeared as if some of them were drawn by one person, and the others by another, for they differed in style and expression.

Fingers grazed the blade at the bottom of the box delicately, hesitantly. Its sleek and metallic surface made him shiver, but he picked it up and studied it anyways.

A purple emblem had been painted onto the handle, the rest looking like a simple dagger. Something about it made it feel as though it had been well taken care of. Maybe it was the cleanliness of it or the weight, heavy enough to feel sturdy and dangerous in his hand. A perfect fit for a man with a frown.

As his fingers brushed the edge of one of the letters, a voice called for him. It sounded distant, so he naturally assumed it was his mother who called him for help.

Of course, when he had put the box away and picked up the last of his stuff, and left to see what his mother needed of him— her answer was confusion.

" **Love, I never called for you.** " She said.


End file.
